


Heartache and War

by nefeviibata



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, Destiel endgame, Episode: s05e04 The End, Feelings Realization, Hurt/Comfort, I will write a happy end for this or so help me, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Pining, Will eventually be Explicit, do not read this if you expect them to get over themselves quickly, do you really think they will kiss within the first 20k of this fic?, not bloody likely, they were pining for 12 years in canon, will update tags and rating as I go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:29:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28855875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nefeviibata/pseuds/nefeviibata
Summary: “It ends tonight. One way or another,” Dean says when Cas is about halfway to the door. He sees him stop and turn his head to the side to look at him over his shoulder and Dean’s gaze falls to Cas’ lips when there is a shadow of a sad smile tugging at the corners of Castiel’s mouth. Then, the former angel presses his lips into a thin line before he turns to look at him straight on again. His eyes are for once not clouded by any drug. They’re just pure clear blue.“No, Dean. There is only one way this ends and you know it.”---2009 Dean never visits. Dean and Cas think this is where their story ends, but it turns out it's not over yet.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Broken Glass

“I heard you shot Yaeger,”

Cas says from the doorway and Dean is equally surprised as he is not that the former angel walks into his cabin barely ten minutes after it happened. He isn’t surprised, because it’s _Cas_ , and Cas knows him, far better than Dean is comfortable with at times. Cas knows that no matter how often something like this needs to be done, and no matter how clinical Dean seems to go about it these days, it doesn’t get easier, not for Dean. It’s perhaps the only thing that hasn’t changed in this godforsaken world.

Dean _is_ surprised, however, that Cas pulled himself out of his loop of drug induced stupor and mindless sex long enough to actually _care_.

“So?” Dean says, his tone sharp, but Cas just gives him a look while slowly making his way towards him. He’s barefooted despite the chilly temperatures of late fall and his feet make almost no sound on the floor.

Dean holds his eyes for a moment, his own narrowing and shoulders tensing. He is used to having to stare people down at this point. It doesn’t happen often, but people do challenge his orders occasionally. He never falters when it is anyone else, but again: _this is Cas_.

So, Dean finds himself pursing his lips and averting his eyes when Cas refuses to. He goes back to rummaging around in his bag, mentally taking stock of ammunition and the state of his weapons, mostly to give himself something to do other than think about the addition of Yaeger’s blood on his hands.

However, he still feels the need to fill the silence that creeps up on him with every barely audible step Cas takes toward him.

“We got ambushed on the way back, one of the Croats got to him—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Dean.”

 _Oh, and doesn’t Dean know that_.

Dean slams his hands down on the table, patience already wearing thin. “Then what are you doing here?” He growls. Anyone else would have flinched back and left the cabin in a hurry at his tone, but not Cas. His answering look is distant, almost empty, and Dean ignores how his chest tightens in return.

Cas’ stare is long and unblinking. That much hasn’t changed. But his eyes have. The bright blue they once held a thing of the past. Now, they’re dull and unfocused, pupils blown wide most of the time with whatever shit he puts into his body nowadays. Even after years of familiarizing himself with that expression it still hurts to see the former angel like this. It constantly reminds Dean of how he failed him, how he failed everyone.

The silence that stretches between them is deafening. So much so that he almost wants Cas to question his decisions and fight with him about further reducing their already dwindling numbers on something as arbitrary as a hunch, but Cas does no such thing.

Dean doesn’t remember when Cas stopped arguing with him about his decisions –when he stopped caring enough to do that— only that he did. It became the most apparent when they realized the other angels left. Ever since then Cas went along with everything Dean says, although that doesn’t stop the former angel from telling him what he thinks of his plans in the most sarcastic way he can. Dean lets him voice his frustrations most of the time, because at the end of the day he knows Cas will let him go through with any plan he comes up with.

It irks Dean, even after years of this. Somehow, blind obedience is not what he wants, at least not from Cas and he certainly doesn’t want apathetic sarcasm from him either, but alas there is nothing he can do about that.

Cas walks past him to the kitchenette, slowly and silently. He grabs two glasses from next to the sink with one hand, before curling his other around the neck of the half finished bottle of whiskey that is standing on the counter. It’s one of the last at camp and doesn’t even taste all that good, but it does the trick when it’s needed. Cas returns to the table and pours both of them two fingers before he sets the bottle down on the table.

Dean’s jaw is still set when Cas offers him one of the glasses, but he takes it from him eventually, resolve faltering along with the tension in his shoulders because damn, they both know he needs that drink. “To Yaeger.” Cas says, after he sits down and props his feet up on the table. He holds his glass out to Dean.

Dean rubs his free hand over his face and sighs, admitting defeat. He doesn’t even want to fight, it just comes naturally these days. He clinks their glasses together, briefly meeting the former angel’s eyes again. “To Yaeger...” he echoes, voice hollow, before knocking the drink back without hesitation. The burn of the whiskey doesn’t ease the tight feeling that’s lingered in his throat since Yaeger’s body slumped to the ground in front of him, but it gives him something else to think about for a few seconds. He pours himself another drink before he sits down opposite of Cas and his gaze falls to the worn surface of the table.

They sit in silence for while and he hears Cas sip on his drink a few times. Dean doesn’t have to look up to know that Cas is furrowing his brows at the taste. The former angel shifts in his seat, and out of the corners of his eyes Dean can see one foot restlessly twitching where Cas’ legs rest on the table, crossed at the ankles. 

Dean’s eyes flicker up at his face. “Still not used to the taste?” He asks, mildly amused, corner of his mouth twitching into a not quite smile at Cas’ expression. The squinty-eyed look somehow still faintly echoes the way he was before all of this. Castiel sighs in return and then downs his own drink in one swift motion. Another disgusted expression comes over his features and he looks at the now empty glass in his hand like it insulted him.

“My last hit was hours ago. I need more.” He clicks his tongue. “My taste buds start to pick out individual molecules again. It’s... unpleasant,” he explains in an annoyed tone, and Dean’s expression falls, gaze turning hard once more before he drops it from the other’s face. He lets his thumb trace a small crack on the clear surface of his glass, turning it slightly in his hands, focus shifting to the swirling liquid inside.

A few years ago hearing Cas speak like this would have him shatter the tumbler against the nearest wall in a fit of anger, but that was back when Dean had still enough fight in him to actually get angry about Cas doing this to himself. Nowadays, Dean is mostly angry at himself for letting it come to this, but it’s not the flaring sort of anger, the one that comes in bursts and makes him break things. This one is deeper, darker and tied to something he can’t let himself name.

He’s learned long ago that Cas’ drug usage is less about the high it gives him and more about dulling what is left of his angel senses. He lost all of his mojo a long time ago and yet he still doesn’t really need to sleep, or eat, or drink. He also doesn’t have to have sex, Dean thinks bitterly and finds himself down his drink to chase the thought away.

Apparently, Cas chooses to drown himself in all of this, because being a shitty human is easier than being a failed angel or something like that. At least that’s what he told Dean one night after a particularly heated argument on the matter. Dean grits his teeth at the memory, brows furrowing at the glass in his hand.

The fight escalated after one of Dean’s more reckless maneuvers. It was a few days after they set up at Camp Chitaqua, just a few months after the Croatoan virus really took hold in North America. Dean doesn’t even really remember his half-baked plan from that day, which was probably courtesy of the concussion he suffered because of it. It was probably something stupid like an ambush on one of Lucifer’s minions gone awry, or a desperate attempt at getting the Colt back. Back then Dean still took everything too lightly because: _Hey, they still have an angel on their side, right?_

It doesn’t matter. The fact remains that when he awoke days later back at camp, a gaping wound in his side and a furious angel hovering nearby, he _finally_ realized just how dire their situation really was. They argued, loudly, and for a long time until Castiel finally caved, body shivering, blue eyes wide and hurt and looking so goddamn _afraid_. Dean had never seen him like that. The angel admitted to his powers fading ever since he decided to stay with Dean after Sam said yes. He said that he was cut off from Heaven for good. That he couldn’t feel his brothers and sisters, or God for that matter and that his grace felt like it was barely there anymore.

Dean learned that day that Cas is the last angel left on earth besides Lucifer, and next to the soaring light of the Morning Star, Castiel’s own was flickering. And just like that, Dean’s mind went blank. It had hit him then with painful blinding clarity: This was not just another fight he could win by being stubborn or by brute-forcing his way through.

He needed help.

He remembers storming out of the cabin, holding his side in agony and screaming himself hoarse for the archangel Michael to take his body as a vessel and make this right. He tried and tried until he was about to faint from loosing too much blood seeping through his bandages.

But no one answered.   
The angels were gone.

He had left Castiel to deal with his grief on his own afterwards, because Dean could barely look at him without guilt tightening his throat so much he could barely breathe. In the end, he simply added the guilt he felt for Castiel’s inevitable spiraling into depression to the pile of repressed feelings that would hopefully never see the light of day again. There wasn’t time to stop and mourn anything or anyone anymore. Why would this be any different?

Dean sets the glass down between them, forcing the dark memories into the furthest corner of his mind. “We got the Colt,” he says then and Cas’ gaze flickers to him. It’s not surprise, or anything similar that make Cas’ eyebrows raise. It looks more like resigned realization, like he dreaded this moment for a long while, but knew it was coming, anyway.

He looks like he knows what comes next, too.

“So, this is it,” Cas says.

Dean nods, pressing his lips together, tasting the remainder of whiskey on them.

“This is it.”

Silence settles over them again, heavy and daunting. It feels like there are countless things Dean should say and an even greater number of things Cas needs to hear. Yet, he is certain nothing he says will fix whatever broke between them so long ago.

In the end, he doesn’t even attempt to find the right words and just slips back into his role as ‘the fearless leader’ as Cas likes to mockingly call him. He puts all his defenses back in place and buries every unhelpful feeling until he is able to meet Cas’ eyes again.

“Go get the others and meet me at the assembly room in 15 minutes. We have a plan to discuss.”

If Cas notices the shift in Dean’s attitude, he doesn’t comment on it. He never does. Instead, he sighs heavily, but begins to move almost immediately after hearing Dean speak. “Alright,” he says and puts his own glass down next to the bottle, not meeting Dean’s gaze once during his process of getting up.

“It ends tonight. One way or another,” Dean says when Cas is about halfway to the door. He sees him stop and turn his head to the side to look at him over his shoulder and Dean’s gaze falls to Cas’ lips when there is a shadow of a sad smile tugging at the corners of Castiel’s mouth. Then, the former angel presses his lips into a thin line before he turns to look at him straight on again. His eyes are for once not clouded by any drug, just pure clear blue.

Dean’s mouth opens slightly at the sharpness of the gaze that meets his and he feels his breath getting stuck in his chest. There are no questions in Cas’ gaze, no doubts, only sadness. Something akin to regret colors his voice as he says:

“No, Dean. There is only one way this ends and you know it.”

Cas’ words have a finality to them that make Dean swallow thickly. They look at each other for a long moment, until Dean falters again. He masks it by pouring himself another glass of whiskey. Then, he hears Cas resume his way to the door, the wood creaking under his feet, footsteps heavy.

“See you on the other side, Cas,” Dean says when he hears the angel open the door, but can’t bring himself to turn his head to watch him go.

“I doubt that.”

Dean doesn’t expect the answer to cut as deeply as it does.

The door clicks shut behind the former angel and for a long moment, Dean doesn’t do anything, only stares at the glass in his hand. He raises it to his lips again, lets the cool rim touch his skin and takes the remainder of the dark liquid into his mouth. Dean swallows. He tastes nothing.

He stands with a sudden start, meaning to give himself something to do by tidying up the glasses, or packing his bag, anything that might distract him from his thoughts. However, when he looks down at the glass in his hand, his eyes zero in on the crack in the surface again. He curls his fingers tighter around the tumbler, thumb still pressing to the fissure until he sees his hand begin to tremble with tension.

Suddenly, anger and frustration make his body coil and in one swift motion he hurls the glass against the nearest wall. It shatters with a sound that isn’t nearly as satisfying as Dean hoped it would be.

He is left to watch with disdain where the residue of whiskey makes its way down the wooden wall, darkening the surface with moisture, akin to blood trickling from a wound.

A sudden wave of nausea hits him and he stumbles backward until his back hits one of the wooden support beams of the cabin. The impact knocks a startled breath out of him that sounds dangerously close to a sob. His knees grow weak and he sinks down against the beam until he hits the floor. His eyes begin to sting and he curls his hands into fists until he feels the bite of his fingernails against his palms. His gaze flicks up at the ceiling and he almost laughs at the absurdity of the situation, but what comes out of his mouth instead is yet another broken sob. It’s over. It’s done. There is no reason to break down now, he tells himself, even as he buries his face in his hands.

After all, what is one more thing broken by his hands?


	2. Remnants

Cas leaves Dean’s cabin feeling more sober than he entered it. He feels the old wood of the veranda beneath his bare feet as he walks. He could count every ridge and worn edge if he concentrated, could be aware of anything in the near vicinity if he tried to focus, but he doesn’t. The faint sensation of everything around him closing in on his awareness is already too much to bear as he feels the haze of the drugs clearing slowly.

He needs another hit.

It’s when he takes the last step off the wooden stairs and onto muddy ground that he hears a dull sound of glass shattering from inside the cabin. Cas turns his face towards the grey sky above, sighing in defeat. He knows the man is hurting and he wishes he could ease Dean’s pain. The years have not changed the yearning he feels to do so. But he couldn’t do so back when he was still a real angel. So, how could he possibly go about it now?

He pushes the thought away and then allows himself to find enjoyment in the way his toes dig into the mud beneath his feet, the cold wet texture of the dirt weirdly soothing against his skin as he makes his way over to his cabin.

He manages to muster enough resilience to not think about what is coming soon and he is very careful to not let himself feel anything at all by holding on to the remaining haze that clouds his senses. It’s better like this, he tells himself. It’s easier.

What does it matter anyway? It’s going to be over soon. All of it.

Someone steps into his path halfway to his destination and it takes him a moment to focus on the person’s face. He blearily realizes that it is Risa. She looks angry, he thinks. All furrowed brows, set jaw and pursed lips, and Cas takes a long moment to consider if she is angry at him, narrowing his eyes at a loose thread on her jacket somewhere on her right shoulder. She suddenly snaps her fingers in front of his face, which manages to get his attention long enough for his eyes to focus on her face again.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” she says, angry voice sounding muffled and far away to Cas’ ears. He meets her eyes then, smiling a fake smile at her. “Yes?” He asks, voice slightly slurred.

He can tell she is more than just pissed by the way her voice bites out at him. “What’s going on? He shoots Yaeger and then goes and hides in his cabin, leaving me and the others to deal with the body? That’s cold, even for him.”

Cas watches her cross her arms in front of her chest and he tilts his head at her. “You’re upset,” he observes.

“Damn right I am!” Risa exclaims and Cas squints his eyes at the tone of her voice. She sounds genuinely hurt, although she masks it well with her frustration. “I’ve been at his side for months now and he still doesn’t tell me anything.”

Cas can barely keep himself from snorting out a laugh. Sure, she has been there, in his bed for pleasure, in the field to help keep him alive, but at his side? Dean doesn’t let anyone be his equal. He doesn’t trust anyone enough for that, not since Sam said yes to Lucifer in Detroit.

“Yeah, well, welcome to the club.” Cas says as an answer and steps around her to continue on his way, but she catches his arm with a hand, giving him pause.

“But he doesn’t have to tell you anything. You always just _know_ ,” she says in a tone that seems vaguely familiar. Cas heard her use it to adress Jane earlier, he thinks, while the two of them were arguing about something, Dean probably. The women at Camp always seem to argue about him. Where he goes, who he sees, who he screws and he realizes belatedly that it is jealousy that taints her voice.

He almost laughs at the prospect of someone being jealous of what broken remains there are of the connection between him and Dean.

In the end he doesn’t laugh, he just gives her another smile and then pulls his arm out of her hold. “Meeting in five,” he tells her then. “Go and tell the others, would you?” And with that he proceeds to make his way over to his cabin and climbs the stairs to the entrance, thinking that he should probably put on some shoes before they move out.

“Cas?” He hears Risa say and stops just as he is about to enter his cabin through the bead curtain. He turns, looking at her from above now.

“What are you to him?” She asks and Cas finds himself thinking for a moment.

_I’m the one who gripped him tight and raised him from perdition._

“Nothing,” he says eventually and even though his voice is flat and he feigns nonchalance perfectly it tightens his chest with old guilt and a sense of longing he thought he squashed long ago.

“I’m just the one who failed him.”


	3. Decisions

This is it.  
There is no going back now.

Dean opens the door on the passenger’s side and throws the bag with his weapons onto the seat. He looks down at the arsenal of weapons. Despite the sheer amount of things he knows it’s not enough. It will never be enough. He wishes it was different, but he knows, he has always known that it wouldn’t be enough, no matter when the day he finally faced Sam— _Lucifer_ would come.

His right hand reaches for the Colt like it has done countless times since he got it back. Once more he checks the amount of bullets in it. One. Just one.   
  
_It’s not enough._   
  
He knows the ‘plan’ is suicidal at best, Cas let him know as much during the briefing, but he has to try. He has to end this, once and for all. It either ends with him or Sam dying. He knows that now and a part of him wonders if he somehow always knew. Being completely honest with himself, which... _yeah right..._ _It really must be the end_ , in a way he’s almost relieved it is here.

The point is: he has longed for this, waited for it, because Dean is tired. So tired, of everything, the guilt, the grief, the responsibilities, the way people look at him like he can somehow make this right, and the way Cas looks at him like he knows _he can’t_.

He feels crushed under this weight every goddamn day of his life and he wants to give in, wants to crash and crumble and _burn_ ; has since the day he lost Sammy. But there are people looking to him for guidance, people who trust him to find a way to turn all of this around. But the truth is he doesn’t know what to do, either. He is as helpless as them. He is only slightly better at hiding it. And he tries, he tries to keep them safe, tries to lead them the best he can, because it’s the only thing he can do to make amends, because everything, all of this, ultimately is his fault.

His shoulders drop. It all comes down to this, doesn’t it? Other people paying for his mistakes, over and over. He abandoned Sam, believed it would keep Michael and Lucifer from destroying the world in their grand battle, but leaving Sam led to him saying yes to Lucifer and that led them here. For years he’s been fighting with a handful of survivors, barely scraping by, himself holding on by a thread to not drown in his anger and grief while the people around him keep dying on a daily basis.

Dean’s gaze strays from his bag to the camp around him. He watches for a moment as the few remaining survivors finish packing. He sees some of them saying goodbye to their loved ones, to those that will stay behind, children mostly. Dean’s jaw tightens.

This feels wrong.

Movement catches his eye off to the side and he turns his head slightly, eyes falling on Cas who is talking with a woman over by his truck. She is one of the most recent survivors who joined them he thinks. Dean doesn’t recall her name, but it doesn’t matter, not to him anyway, after tonight nothing matters anymore.

It’s then that Cas meets his eyes across the yard and something tightens in Dean’s chest again.

It has to be one of the worst parts of all of this: watching Castiel stand by him, loyal to a fault, only to crumble and corrupt with time. Seeing such a powerful, _supposedly eternal,_ being lose his powers, and himself, piece by piece, watching him become a fallen angel, becoming _human,_ simply because he chose to follow Dean, because he believed in him instead of _God’s plan_.

It is perhaps the thing Dean regrets the most out of everything, even more than not saying yes to Michael when he still had the chance.

What makes it worse is that only a few hours ago, Dean saw a glimpse of the old Castiel shining through this facade. He wishes now that he had said something, anything, to Cas in that moment, even though he can’t even imagine what that would have been. It’s not like he can fix what broke between them. Hell, he isn’t even sure what that was in the first place.

He pulls himself away from that train of thought and reminds himself yet again that it’s too late. It’s over. He casts his eyes down, and turns back to the car, throat tight with resurfacing guilt and frustration.

Nothing goes right anymore, so why would this?

Except, a few weeks back, things suddenly did just that, didn’t they? They started to go right when Dean’s squad caught that demon, a member of Lucifer’s inner circle, and for the first time in years they got some viable infomation out of it. For once they know where Lucifer will be and they finally have the Colt back, too. _They have a chance._ At least that is what he keeps telling himself, fiercely ignoring the tiny voice of reason in the back of his mind, which keeps arguing it’s **too** good to be true.

Frankly, that voice sounds a lot like Sam _and_ _isn’t that a depressing thought_.

But Dean has to believe the plan will work, if only for his own sanity. It has taken him years to get to this point, and it has cost all of them too much to have doubts about it now. Finally all of their sacrifices will pay off, _finally_ things are falling into place. Just like that their luck turned and it feels like they can see the light at the end of the tunnel—

He pauses.

The sensation of **wrong** hits him again, even harder than before. _It’s a trap_ , he thinks with sudden clarity, and realizes that he isn’t thinking this for the first time either.

The plan won’t work. The Colt won’t work.

Dean knows this, has known from the moment that demon they captured cracked under his torture having lasted _just_ the appropriate amount of time. Dean only wants to go through with this _because_ it won’t work, _because_ it’s suicidal, _because_ it will be the death of him and everyone that comes with him.

He thinks about Cas again, about how the former angel looked at him back in the cabin. He probably saw it in Dean’s eyes the moment he stepped through the door, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to stop him because Cas thinks it wouldn’t have made a difference either. Dean lets out a long breath before he slams his fist down on the roof of the car, causing the people around him to jump.

“Damn it!” He exclaims, the anger from earlier returning full force.

He presses his lips together for a moment and looks up into the night sky. He sees thousands of stars looking down at him in return, beautiful and silent. He doesn’t know what he is looking for, doesn’t know why he is even looking in the first place. His rational side is already arguing that he should just get on with the plan he has and let things end with a bang, but there is this small part of him that wants to hold on to the last straw, that wants to keep fighting, to keep looking, to keep _trying_.

As long as he’s breathing he can still keep fighting.

“Dean?” He hears the familiar gravel of Cas’ voice and he turns to face him. Their eyes meet and Dean’s gaze wavers as he looks at the former angel. Cas’ brows furrow slightly in return, his eyes narrow at Dean, but there is a sudden small spark of curiosity in them and his head tilts ever so slightly to the side. His brows furrow like he doesn’t understand, like Dean’s behavior is puzzling to him for the first time in years. Cas’ expression is a sudden unexpected echo of the way he looked at him _before_ _all of this_ and the distant familiarity of the expression tugs at Dean’s memories.

He feels something shift inside of him.

There must be something in Dean’s expression that shakes the former angel, too, because even with the limited light around camp at this hour Dean sees the blue of Cas eyes regain focus, regain brightness, and just like that Dean makes a choice. One he wasn’t even aware of in the first place.

The angel’s eyes widen at whatever he sees in Dean’s gaze then and for once they do not immediately cloud over again. It’s the first time in forever that Dean doesn’t feel his heart sink when he looks at Cas and he finds himself thinking: _Perhaps it’s not too late after all_.

His breath is shaky as he inhales and exhales deeply to calm himself before raising his voice and adressing the people around him. “Forget moving out!” He shouts, loud enough that everyone around the campsite hears him. “Plan’s changed.”

There is a rumble of voices going around camp after his announcement. Some voices he hears sound disapproving, others just flat out confused. He hears hasty footsteps drawing closer.

“Dean? What are you doing?” It’s Chuck who speaks and Dean turns to look at him.

“You heard me,” he says before looking around camp once more. “Go back to your usual posts. Keep watch according to your scheduled shifts. Everyone else: get some sleep.”

He points at Cas, who raises his eyebrows at Dean in return. “Cas, I need to talk to you.” Then, Dean retrieves his bag and closes the door of the car with more force than necessary. He turns to start and make his way back to his cabin, only to have Chuck step in his way, stuttering, eyes wide.

“Y-you can’t just call this off.” He says, voice high and panicked.

“Well, I just did.” Dean says curtly and Chuck blinks at him a few times.

“What about the plan? The Colt? I thought—”   
  
“Chuck!” Dean cuts in and puts a hand on the man’s shoulder when Chuck looks at him like he’s about to cry. “I know, okay? But something seems fishy here. I need time to think of another plan, because I have a feeling the one I have won’t work.”

Chuck opens and closes his mouth a few times like he wants to say something else, but then he nods and Dean drops his hand from his shoulder to walk past him.

It’s Risa that stops him next and Dean is just about done with people questioning him. “What the hell, Dean?” She asks, and he immediately hates the way she’s looking at him. He knows she’s still pissed about him being with Jane last night, which is exactly the reason he did go to her in the first place. He noticed Risa was getting attached to him, so he had to hurt her to keep her away. It will be easier for her in the long run. She doesn’t want him. Not really. She just thinks she does.

He can see the hurt in her eyes, although it’s not the same expression she wore during the earlier briefing. It’s no longer anger stemming from jealousy or frustration about Dean being like any other asshole who used her before. What shines in her eyes now is the kind of hurt that comes from worry and deep affection. The latter being the only thing people seem to give easily these days. Everyone responds so quickly to a friendly word or touch. It’s why Cas is so successful with his love-guru crap, because everyone hopes to still get something good out of this broken world.

Dean wishes he couldn’t identify that look on her face so easily. It would spare him feeling remorse for never being able to reciprocate her feelings.

“What’s going on?” She hisses and frustration is clear in her voice, her posture, her eyes. Then, her expression shifts. “Talk to me, please.” She pleads and he pushes past her, not able to look at her.

“Just do as I say,” he says, voice unwavering and cold. Then, he addresses the small crowd that he realizes has gathered around them. “Didn’t you hear me? Back to your posts!” He yells and people finally start shuffling away. His eyes focus on Risa again. “That goes for you, too.” He says and sees her mouth shut and her jaw set before her attention flickers to somewhere behind Dean. He realizes belatedly that she is looking at Cas and doesn’t quite know what to make of that. In the end, Risa’s expression closes off for good and then she turns on her heels and walks away.

“That was harsh,” Cas says, voice pointedly aloof and Dean feels close to snapping.

“I’m doing this to keep all of them safe.”

“And here I thought you were just being a dick.” Cas retords casually.

Dean sets his jaw and starts walking towards his cabin. “You coming, or what?”

“Right behind you, fearless leader.”

Dean pretends the nickname doesn’t make him want to puke.


	4. Old Wounds

They enter the cabin and Dean walks to the table to unceremoniously drop his bag onto it. His eyes fall to the Colt and he has to fight down the feeling of doubt that is nagging at him. There is nothing he can do, though. He won’t change his mind about the mission again.

“The Colt won’t work on Lucifer,” he says and Cas is pointedly silent.

“You knew, didn’t you.” It’s not a question.

“I had my suspicions.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“Would you have listened?”

Dean falls silent, which he knows speaks volumes to Cas anyway. However, the former angel doesn’t gloat. If anything Dean thinks he sees his shoulders slump in defeat before Cas walks over to the table as well.

“So, if the Colt is out, what is the plan?”

“I don’t have one.” Dean admits and hears Cas breathe out in an exagerrated sigh. A moment later the former angel flops down in the same chair he chose earlier today.

“What am I here for then?”

“Brainstorming.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Dean watches Cas let his head fall back against the backrest of the chair to look up at the ceiling. “I need a drink,” he says in a tone that sounds more like the words are born of habit than genuine need. 

“No, you don’t. I need you sober.”

Cas chuckles as he find Dean’s eyes again. “Dean, I haven’t been sober in years.”

Dean walks over to him and puts a hand on the table, leaning on it to give Cas a hard look. “This is serious,” he says, but Cas, as always, doesn’t seem even vaguely intimidated by Dean’s tone. He just looks up at him before he props his feet up on the table and crosses his arms in front of his chest. He gives Dean a tired grin, which only widens further when Dean’s expression turns into a glare.

“Not for nothing, Dean, but the last person who looked at me like that— I got laid.” Cas even winks at him after that statement and something twists painfully inside Dean’s stomach. It’s not a real coming on. He knows Cas well enough to know that the words are some kind of twisted joke, probably a play on something Dean said at some point in the past and the angel is now using against him. It’s in his eyes, something challenging, daring him to remember, but Dean doesn’t. He doesn’t even want to try, knowing it would hurt more than it has any right to. It makes him painfully aware of the fact that Cas doesn’t forget things and he doesn’t dare to think about how the angel most likely remembers every harsh word and act Dean ever subjected him to.

Sometimes, this side of Cas bleeds through in their conversations. As much as the years made the former angel apathetic, they also made him cruel and Dean will never admit it, but Cas is the only one around who can still get to him with as little as a single sentence. Maybe that’s why he casts his eyes down when he does, unable to look at the drug hazed gaze staring back at him.

After a long moment of silence, Cas sighs once more, tilting his head to the side to look at Dean tiredly. “What will you have me do, then?”

“Try to think of something, anything, that could help us kill Lucifer.”

“Don’t you think I would have said something if I knew of another way?”

“I don’t know, Cas, half of the time you are blitzed out of your mind. So, excuse me if I question your judgement as of late.” The words come out a lot harsher than he intended, everything does when Dean talks to Cas for some reason.

This time it’s the angel who drops his gaze, which either means Dean pissed him off, or Cas thinks he has a point and doesn’t want to admit it. The way Cas’ jaw is working tells him that it might be both. Dean rubs a hand over his face and presses his lips together into a thin line before he steps closer to Cas and comes to lean against the edge of the table, facing the former angel.

“Listen, I don’t want to fight. I’m asking for your help here.” When Cas still doesn’t look at him Dean inhales slowly before releasing the air in two words, both of them barely above a whisper, akin to a prayer. “Please, Cas.”

That has the other look up at him with surprise. He knows why. Dean doesn’t plead and he certainly doesn’t pray. Dean is relieved to find Cas not too far gone to realize that, even though his eyes are still dreadfully empty. Despite the small spark Dean thought he saw earlier, the blue rings of his irises are still almost completely drowned out by his blown pupils, no doubt courtesy of the most recent ‘hit’ Cas said he needed earlier.

It takes a long while before either of them speaks again and Dean tries to not be unnerved by the way Cas is studying him now. It’s weird how familiar it feels even though it’s been quite a while since he was subjected to the former angel’s scrutiny.

“You seem... different than a few hours ago.”

“Is that so?” Dean feels the sudden need to move. So, he walks back over to where his bag is sitting on the table. He begins unpacking, solely because he needs to give his hands something to do.   
  
“Yes,” Cas adds after a moment of silence between them in which Dean can feel his eyes following his every move. “You don’t look like you want to die anymore.”

Dean’s lips part at that briefly and he glances at Cas again, before he inhales and then exhales in a sigh. He probably shouldn’t be surprised that Cas knew. “Yeah, well... Turns out I still have some fight left in me.”

Cas _laughs_ at that and Dean’s immediate response is to tense up and glare at him, but then he realizes that Cas’ laugh is not forced, or mocking, it’s genuine. Dean is left stunned at that observation and just watches as Cas laugh ebbs until his expression comes to linger in a smile. It’s not a fake smile either, or one of the dazed ones Dean has grown so accustomed to. It’s small, yet uncontrolled and for the first time in years seems to reach his eyes. And then, just like that, it’s gone again and replaced by a cold chuckle that has the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up.

“Oh, Dean.” Cas says, his tone suddenly flat.

Dean narrows his eyes at him as he is reminded why he doesn’t spend a lot of time in the other’s company anymore. The former angel’s behavior tends to drive him up the fucking walls these days.

“What’s so funny?”

“ _You_.”

“Glad to know you’re still high.” Dean scoffs, gaze averting and boring into the opposite wall, frustration level rising.

“Are _you_?” The angel asks in return, words sounding almost genuinely curious, if it wasn’t for them dripping with sarcasm. Dean hates this. He never wanted this to happen to Cas. Cas is the only person he has left from his old life, seeing him like this _hurts_. Cas seems more awake than he did when they first entered the cabin a few minutes ago. His gaze, while clearer, somehow also seems darker. Broken, Dean realizes. His chest tightens at the realization.

“So, what?” Cas asks into the silence that settled between them. “You finally realized how this plan of yours would play out and got scared? And now I’m supposed to have a solution? ” He chuckles. “It’s almost like old times, isn’t it? You calling on me when things get rough...” Cas leans back in his chair and exhales slowly as he looks up at the ceiling. “Sorry, but that is pretty much the one fix that I can’t provide you with.”

“Very funny,” Dean says and grits his teeth.

“Do you hear me laughing?” The former angel shoots back.

Dean holds his gaze, feeling cold. There are probably a few hundred things he should say to Cas in order to make this conversation stop going around in circles, but Dean can’t find the words. “Damnit, Cas...” is what he settles for in the end, but immediately trails off again, finding that his tone is far too wounded and raw. He decides the sentence is going nowhere anyway and then reaches up to run a hand over his face in frustration.

“What did I do this time?” Cas asks without moving.

“Nothing. That’s the point. It’s as if you—”

“Gave up?”

Dean’s mouth opens slightly, but no words form in response. Sometimes, very rarely, it’s like this when they’re alone and Cas isn’t drugged out of his mind for once. Sometimes, the angel lets the giggly mask crumble away in Dean’s presence and allows him to see what’s left of the angel beneath. Dean still doesn’t know if he is grateful for that, or if he resents it when that happens. It makes Cas look more like the angel he knew and less like the human he has become, but seeing that glimpse of his former presence somehow hurts more than seeing him as entirely corrupted and beyond rehabilitation.

“Look who’s talking,” the former angel says, shifting in his seat as he burrows his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He turns his head to pin Dean with a look. “Yes, Dean. I gave up. I’m tired and I’m done fighting.” Cas gaze falls to Dean’s side, where his gun is strapped to his hip. “You might as well just take that gun of yours and end me right here.” The words are spoken so nonchalantly that they have to be meant as a joke, yet Dean’s entire body goes rigid at them, and the look Cas’ gives him makes it clear that joking is the furthest thing from his mind right now.

“Cas—”

The nickname seems to give the angel pause and Castiel’s gaze softens at whatever he sees on Dean’s face then. “Don’t give me that look. We both know you wanted to throw yourself and all of us to Lucifer just to be done with it.”

Dean doesn’t bother denying it, doesn’t feel like lying to Cas’ face right now. So, he doesn’t say anything and for a while nothing else is said between them and the only noise in the cabin is that of Dean methodically cleaning out his bag.

Then, out of the blue, Cas asks. “What am I to you, Dean?”

Dean’s mind goes completely blank, his own question a mere reflex: “What?”

“When all of this started some of the other angels called me your pet.”Cas gaze is sharp as a knife. His words laced with simmering fury. “But I was merely a weapon, wasn’t I? Another loaded gun at your disposal and as soon as I stopped being that, I stopped being important.”

Every syllable that falls from Cas’ mouth feels like it is hollowing Dean out. It’s not true. None of this is true. Dean should tell him that, but anger tightens his throat.

“Cas, that’s enough.” Dean says, with the finality of the leader he had to be for the better part of five years now. Cas’ mouth shuts immediately and with that they are back to silence. This obedience isn’t new, not by a long shot, and yet Dean never got used to it. He still vividly remembers being beaten up in an alleyway by a furious angel for even considering saying ‘yes’ to Michael. It feels like a lifetime ago. He hasn’t seen Cas get angry like this in years. Hell, other than apathetic sarcasm or fake bliss Cas just doesn’t do emotions anymore. It pisses Dean off beyond believe and at the same time it threatens to break something terrifyingly fragile inside of him.

The other’s words make it clear what Cas thinks of him now. ‘Fearless leader’ has become a synonym for heartless bastard and it hits Dean like a freight train that the look Cas is giving him right now is the same Dean had whenever he talked to his father way back when, even though Dean never had the guts to confront John about what he made him into. It still hurts all the same to think that Cas believes he is just a blunt instrument to him.

The truth is, Cas has never been just that. Even when Dean thought angels were nothing but feathered douchebags he somehow still knew that Cas was more than that, would always be more than that. He’s the one who saved him, the one who remained loyal even when Sam left, the one who was there when Bobby died, the one thing he still has left. Dean thought that after years of fighting together the former angel knows that, but as it turns out he doesn’t.

This probably shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

“You know—” Dean’s throat feels tight, his voice is raspy with emotion, but his gaze is unyielding as he stares back at Cas, anger simmering in his stomach. “—for someone who claims they know me, you really know jackshit about me.”

“And whose fault is that?” Castiel answers, voice icy, unaware of how it makes Dean’s jaw clench. “After all, y _ou_ shut _me_ out first, Dean.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry. Years of anger and helplessness make their way to the forefront of his mind. “I tried okay?!” He snaps, voice rising in volume as he throws out his arms in a sudden gesture. He points at Cas. “Many times. It’s not like you wanted my help!”

And Castiel’s eyes narrow, mouth turning into a snarl. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to fall for—” Cas stumbles over his words, catches himself and tries again, voice dangerously low. Cas sounds a whole lot like back in the beautiful room all these years ago, when he asked Dean what about the world is worth saving. “—Do you think I wanted to fall? That I wanted to lose everything that I was, that I am? Because of **_you_**?” And just like that, all the fight leaves Dean’s bones and his eyes widen slightly before he casts them down, staring at the dirty flooring beneath his feet.

He hears Castiel inhale sharply, and he hates that he doesn’t even have to look up to know that his eyes are now wide and round. “Dean, I didn’t mean—”

Dean purses his lips as the former angel says his name. “Yeah, you did.” He bites out. What he thought he saw back in the yard earlier, that small spark in Cas’ eyes, it had been his mind playing tricks on him after all. He longs for the anger from before, but Cas’ words cut deeper than Dean imagined and it’s not just anger that twists painfully inside of him now.

“Get out.” Dean barks.

“Dean—”

“Get. Out.”

Cas follows his orders as he always does and once again Dean catches himself wishing he didn’t. He can’t even bring himself to watch the other leave. His anger doesn’t keep his shoulders from slumping when he hears the door click shut. It doesn’t keep his mind from replaying Cas’ words inside his head. If this conversation showed him anything it’s that the former angel really lost all hope.

The worst thing is: Dean can’t even blame him.


	5. Change

It’s getting colder Cas notices when he leaves Dean’s cabin for the second time that day and he takes a moment to marvel at the fact that he even notices at all. Day by day the temperatures fall further and people at camp will soon begin to brace themselves for the upcoming coldest season of the year. Cas doesn’t need to, since he doesn’t perceive temperature in the same way humans do, even with his grace as depleted as it is. 

Cas can feel the eyes of some of the guards on him when he makes his way across the yard. He holds up a hand to them in greeting, which makes them nod at him and move on. Cas continues on his way too, but instead of walking straight into his cabin he sits down on the porch and looks up at the stars. 

He feels terrifyingly empty after what he said to Dean just now. The hunter came to him for reassurance and to ask for help and Cas shot him down so thoroughly it made his own chest ache. For the longest time he thought Dean just saw him as dead weight. Dean hadn’t even been able to look at him after Cas first confessed that his powers were fading, so he had quickly grown accustomed to the sting that came with feeing useless. 

But when Dean looked at him just now like he was still important, like he was still something to him, it made Cas lash out, made him angry and it pushed all the bitter feelings and thoughts he kept buried for so long to the forefront of his mind.  
His words were said in frustration. They were said as if Cas blamed the hunter for what happened to him, which he doesn’t. It would be easy to do it, but it’s not Dean’s fault that Cas fell. It’s a decision he made on his own, although he is certain that even knowing this won’t keep the hunter from shouldering the guilt for the way it ultimately turned out.

Cas didn’t mean to hurt Dean with his words. He never means to hurt him, but whatever he does it always seems to work out that way. Somehow Dean is always worse off when Cas decides to get involved. It’s always something he says, or doesn’t say. Something he can’t understand because he’s not human, or something he can’t fix because he is not as much of an angel as Dean needs him to be at any given moment. Cas didn’t mean to become so broken that Dean feels the need to shut him out in the first place. Castiel was meant to be a warrior, a guardian, not another burden for Dean to bear. 

He hadn’t meant to fall. Not like this.

He doesn’t realize how long he sits there just looking up and thinking until the sun rises a few hours later. He pulls himself up then, his vessel’s skin thoroughly cold to the point where he can almost feel the sensation tingle at his fingertips. 

When he enters his cabin he makes his way to one of the old drawers out of habit more than anything else. He rummages around in a pile of well-worn clothes for a bit until his fingers curl around a bottle of pills. He pops the lid open before he can think twice about it. However, he stops mid-movement as a handful of them spill onto his palm and he just looks at them for a moment, squinting, considering. 

‘I need you sober’ Dean said.   
‘I need you’ is what Cas’ mind chooses to replay over and over.

Cas almost laughs at the notion. Dean doesn’t need him, hasn’t needed him in years, if ever. No one does. He furrows his brows before he pinches one of the white pills between his thumb and index finger and brings it to his lips. He’s not an angel anymore. He’s barely even a person, really. 

It’s a lie he keeps telling. One he almost believes himself by now. The truth is, there is little left of his grace, maybe even less now than the last time he dared to evaluate its remaining power. Cas very rarely lets himself be lucid enough to get in touch with what remains of his grace nowadays. He wonders, not for the first time, if his grace will ever completely deminish; if one day he will be 'truly' human as opposed to 'practically' human. 

He isn’t quite there yet, though. 

But whenever he reaches inside himself to tune into his powers he feels what can barely be described as a spark of grace, but what’s worse is the never-ending emptiness where he once could feel thousands of warm presences lingering just outside his consciousness. And if his own powerlessness wasn’t enough to get him to his knees, he easily crumbles under the cutting loneliness of his absent family. 

He didn't realize it at the time, but he still found comfort in his siblings simply beeing there, even when they resented him for his actions and his choices. But now that they are gone, Cas finds he doesn't enjoy being aware of things anymore, especially the loneliness he feels. There are few upsides to being aware if the only things to be aware off are pain and suffering, his own and that of others, Dean’s especially. 

There is no comfort in the fact that sober he can still perceive his surroundings in as much detail as he pleases, that he can easily focus on a bird flapping its wings half a mile away if he so chooses, or that he can still conjure up a perfectly accurate image of how the cells of a body need to be arranged in order to heal it from a fatal wound. It doesn't matter that he can still do all that, because without his angelic strength, speed or the ability to heal he can't utilize such information. There is simply no need for him to be aware of anything, really. Being aware just means feeling useless on top of everything else and these days he mostly just longs for a way to dull the pain he feels about the state of the world he helped bring about.

So, if the drugs drown out the pain and suffering that come with free will and the only price he pays for it are his angelic senses? Great. Two birds one stone and all that... 

There is also the fact that people tend to pick up on it when he does tap into his grace. Although, they don’t know what exactly he is doing per se. Cas is fairly certain not even Dean and Chuck know what it is that changes in him then, other than the fact that he is sober for once. However, everyone agrees Cas is significantly different on those days and not just because he won’t let anyone touch him then. 

People know that when his gaze is sharper than usual, his blue eyes almost glowing, that the only thing they will get from coming near him is a sharp glare and a sudden sense of a lingering thunderstorm creeping up on them with lightning ready to strike at any moment. 

‘Turns out I still have some fight left in me’

Cas aborts his action and pulls the pill back from his lips. For a long time it didn't matter how dazed he was, how little he behaved like an angel, because he had nothing to lose and at the very least some soothing apathy to gain. Most of the time Cas even enjoys himself while drowning in endorphins, or at least he thinks he does, his memory of the past two years is patchy at best. With good reason, he reminds himself. 

He can already feel his chest tightening with long-repressed emotions. He doesn’t want them. He is as afraid of them now as he was when he first begged Anna to help him understand, maybe even more so. His gaze falls to his palm again and he is closer than ever to giving in to the urge of swallowing the pills to fight down the darkness that creeps into his mind. 

‘Please, Cas.’

He scrunches his eyes shut as the plea echoes in his mind. He curls his fingers around the pills, so tightly he feels them grate against each other in his palm. Something flares in his chest with the memory. A sense of hope tingles within him again. Things have changed. Dean changed, although Cas doesn’t know why. The hunter seemed dead-set on dying less than a day ago and yet somehow Dean wants to keep fighting and the worst part of it is: Cas thinks he wants to, too.

Cas releases a breath and opens his eyes. They catch on something familiar protruding from the open drawer. Bunched up beneath several shirts and two pairs of trousers, all of them hand-me-downs from either Dean or Bobby, his eyes come to linger on Jimmy’s— no his old trenchcoat. On a whim he abandons the pills and pulls the tan piece of clothing out of the drawer. His eyes roam across the fabric and a sense of nostalgia overcomes him. 

He shakes the coat a few times, watching it unfold before him. The action doesn’t get rid of the wrinkles in the fabric, but Cas still puts it on after. It’s odd how familiar the oversized piece of clothing feels, the worn fabric a weirdly comforting weight on his shoulders.

Cas isn't quite done marvelling at his rediscovered trenchcoat when there is a knock at his doorframe. “Come in,” he says, voice a little rougher than usual, and turns just as Chuck enters through the beaded curtain.

“Hey Cas, just making the rounds and asking if people need anything in particular from the next run.” Chuck says, barely looking up from his worn clipboard as he jots down some notes. 

Cas knows the focus of this particular mission are toiletries and medical supplies since Chuck has been going on about that for a while now, but for the first time in forever Cas doesn’t plan on putting in a request for narcotics of any kind. 

“I’m good,” Cas says in answer and that makes Chuck look up at him with a confused frown. “You sure?” Cas knows that Chuck is well aware of the amount of stuff the former angel has to put into his system in order to feel any effect at all. He always asks for at least something, if only to add it to his stash in case of an ‘emergency’. Chuck takes a look at the trenchcoat then, but if he has an opinion on it he doesn’t voice it. Cas doesn’t care either way.

“Yes,” he says to answer Chuck’s question and Chuck looks at him for a moment longer before he shrugs. 

“Okay.” He says and turns to leave. Cas follows him out onto the porch and leans over the ballustrade to watch him make his way across the yard. Cas almost regrets his decision when he consciously feels the last of the drugs from tonight leaving his system and is close to mourning his apathetic state of mind until he watches Chuck hand his list to Dean. Cas can’t help it, he watches the hunter closely as he goes through it.

Once.   
Twice.   
Then, Dean looks at Chuck. 

“Is that all?” Cas hears him ask, and is suddenly aware of the fact that he shouldn’t be able to hear Dean’s words so clearly across the distance. Cas sees Chuck nod and then Dean’s eyes turn to look over to Cas’ cabin. The hunter clearly doesn’t expect Cas to look back at him. He can see the surprise in his eyes and then there is underlying relief in them, too. Cas’ turns his chin down and fixes his eyes on his hands. 

They’re shaking. His vessel is reacting to the lack of narcotics in his system already. He can feel a headache coming on, but Cas knows it won’t last. He’s certain that his vessel is capable of dispelling a lot of the unwanted physical reactions within a few hours, even with his grace being as weak as it is. There is little man-made substances can do to an angel’s vessel if they’re not magically infused. 

However, it’s not the physical symptoms he fears, it’s the clarity of his own mind and the abyss of silence in it.


	6. Routine

After Cas leaves, Dean turns off the ceiling light and eventually finds himself sitting down bonelessly on the edge of his bed, hanging his head in frustration as their conversation replays in his head. The memory of Cas’ expression is still clear in his mind, the hurt, the pain, the resignation.

_You shut me out first, Dean._

Dean flinches at the memory and raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He feels old frustration tensing up his shoulders and neck, the beginnings of a headache pulsing at the corners of his eyes. His teeth clench. It’s not like he had a choice, right? Besides, Cas didn’t want his help. They fought about all of this so often Dean lost count and it had taken so much out of him that at one point he just stopped trying to reason with the former angel. Cas had been selfdestructing at a rate Dean couldn’t stop and he certainly couldn’t focus his attention on one member of his team while everyone else was looking to him for guidance. Even if that member was Cas. He simply couldn’t fight another losing battle. So, Dean stopped trying and just watched from afar, holding Cas at arm’s length while the other made his choices. Dean watched Cas fall apart, and it hurt, but as long as the former angel was sober enough to not get himself killed on a mission that was enough for Dean.

_Do you think I wanted to fall?  
That I wanted to lose everything that I am?  
Because of **you**?_

Dean’s stomach turns and he scrunches his eyes shut tight. It’s not like this is the first time he thought about this. Even before Cas stated it so bluntly Dean always felt like Cas’ fall was ultimately his fault. If he hadn’t been ordered to save him, none of this would have happened to him. Dean’s right hand reaches up to his left shoulder, hesitantly closing over where the handprint is buried beneath his shirt and jacket. It’s undeniable proof of the fact that Cas pulled him out of hell on God’s orders, even though Dean has no recollection of it happening.

Without the memory to go with the scar it’s easy to forget the mark is there sometimes, of everything Cas did for him even before he knew who Dean was as a person. The initially angry red print has faded to be less vibrant, but the outline of the hand is still a stark contrast against the rest of his skin.

Weirdly enough the times where he is most often made aware of the mark is during sex. The eyes of a lot of women stray to the handprint when Dean pulls his shirt over his head. He usually sees them rake their gaze across his chest and abdomen first, their eyes might linger on the tattoo, but their attention always catches on the handprint on his shoulder. Sometimes he’s asked about it, sometimes he’s not. Often enough he cracks a joke, but he never tells the real story. But silently he always thinks of Cas when the handprint comes up and then he has to chase the thought of the former angel out of his mind before losing himself in whoever he has beneath him at the time.

It’s never the first place a woman touches him, but it’s almost a given that as soon as he’s buried inside of her she will. Dean isn’t entirely sure why, but he figures it’s a possessive thing. With Risa it definitely was. Her touch on it was tentatively during the first few times, forceful after his visits to her cabin became a regular occurence. Sometimes it seemed like she expected something to happen when she touched it – she would curl her slim fingers over the foreign handprint, her own hand slightly too small to cover it up completely— but nothing ever did.

To Dean any sort of touch on it never feels like much. It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t even do as much as tickle. The scar tissue is simply numb to sensations.

Dean shifts where he is sitting and lets out a groan when he realizes the various memories of sex made him half hard. “Get a grip.” He tells himself in the dark and lowers himself backward onto the bed. His hand falls from his shoulder to his side and he blindly kicks his boots and socks off before he shuffles higher until his head can nestle on his pillow.

The motion causes unwanted friction against his cock via the fabric of his pants and he clenches his teeth against the urge to reach down to unbutton his jeans, curling his fingers tightly into the sheets. He stays like that far longer than he cares to admit.

Dean wakes a few hours later and goes through his morning routine like he would any other day. He’s halfway through brushing his teeth when he realizes that there will be no more toothpaste left in his cabin afterwards. It’s this otherwise inconsequential thought that makes three things really sink in:

1) He thought he would die trying to kill the devil  
2) He is still alive  
3) He needs to get a squad together to go on a supply run

He spits into the sink and scrunches up his face at the small amount of blood mingling with the foamy residue. Then, he rinses his mouth and splashes some water on his face before he meets his own gaze in the mirror. Tired eyes look back at him like they always do, but he can’t help but feel like something has changed within him. He runs a hand over his face and straightens his back.

Back to business as usual.

It goes on for about a month.

They make supply runs and scout for other survivors with varying success and fight off the regular amount of Croats with loosing the minimal amount of people. All things considered they’re doing as well as they can in a situation such as theirs.

Reports of their scouting party tell them Lucifer is no longer at the location Dean pulled from that random demon’s brain and like before they lack clues on where to search for him next. But without the means to kill him there is no point in looking anyway, and newfound hope or not, they are back at square one. Without something bigger to work towards Dean can see his people becoming restless and he knows some of the more unstable ones are just one fatality away from going ballistic.

The only real improvement is to be found in Cas, which is a development Dean didn’t expect after their recent falling out. They haven’t talked about it, which comes as a surprise to no one. Neither of them apologized or even made so much as an attempt to. Dean doesn’t even know if he wants an apology and he certainly hasn’t found the courage to extend an olive branch himself.

But maybe it’s what Cas is trying to do, because for a few weeks now the former angel managed to keep himself up and alert as far as talk at camp goes the orgies have stopped, too. Not that Dean cares about that. Cas can do whatever he wants, but the fact that he doesn’t is just more evidence that his behavior is shifting. And this sort of shift, along with the fact that the former angel seems more levelheaded than usual, is enough for Dean to trust him with leading missions again.

It’s too much to say he feels _comfortable_ with letting Cas take a small squad to Bobby’s to pick up whatever they can on lorebooks from the late hunter’s house, but there is no one else he will trust to do it.

Dean doesn’t have to explain anything about the mission to Cas and there are no questions asked about why Dean won’t come with. The former angel knows there is no chance in hell Dean is ever going back to that house. Cas was there on the day Dean was forced to put a bullet in Bobby’s head and chest after he got infected and he knows Dean never looked back after that.

However, the hunter is almost certain Cas was the one that salted and burned the old man’s body.

All of this doesn’t change the fact that Dean is a mess for the entirety of Cas’ absence, barking orders left and right in a tone that makes little sense to anyone who hasn’t seen him worried out of his mind before, and that is just about everyone at camp. Dean only realizes he is close to losing it when Chuck of all people musters up enough courage to put a hand on his shoulder and tells him to go and find a distraction for all of their sakes.

On other days Dean might have found a woman to pass the time with, to get lost in, but he’s strung too tight to even consider putting on his charm. He goes hunting instead. He kills a deer, which he brings home for dinner and it seems to appease the people he yelled at enough to let his earlier temper tantrum go.

Cas’ squad returns three hours behind schedule with what looks to be just about every lorebook they could find, a bag full of weapons and a number of weird looking ingredients that might proof useful if they have to do a spell of any kind. They also found Bobby’s hunters’ journal. They pulled from the hidden compartment over the fireplace, exactly where Dean told them it would be.

None of Cas’ people have any injuries when they return, even though they are talking about a particularly nasty run-in with a group of Croats while unloading the trucks. Dean has to fight the urge to go and check on the former angel immediately and instead makes himself purposefully scarce.

Later, he overhears a conversation between two women, one of them a member of Cas’ squad, who praises Cas’ tactical prowess and gives him the sole credit for all of them making it back alive and unharmed.

It reminds Dean of the fact that before all of this, Cas was a warrior of Heaven and a strategist with literal eons of experience. Dean is torn between a weird sense of pride for his friend’s abilities and the nagging guilt about how he shouldn’t have to be reminded of Cas’ skills in the first place. He tells himself it’s not his fault. It’s just hard to see Cas as anything other than the image he created for himself over the past few years.

It’s with a stab of pain in his chest that Dean realizes that that is probably the whole point of Cas’ facade.

These thoughts are still on his mind when Cas finally walks up to him after dinner. For a moment he wonders if Cas noticed the looks Dean gave him throughout the meal. Dean realized that Cas wasn’t eating or drinking at all a while back and he isn’t sure if that is a good or a bad sign. But Cas doesn’t say anything about that, just pulls Dean aside and away from prying eyes before he hands him a small steel flask with leather hull. To anyone else there would be nothing special about it, but to Dean it means everything.

It was Bobby’s.

“I thought you might want it.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

If his voice wavers when he says that, nobody needs to know.

It’s one hell of an olive branch.


	7. Truce

After Cas' peace offering, both of them accept the truce that comes with it and from then on their routine at camp gains another task for the evenings, namely, research on anything that can aid them in a fight against the devil.

It's the third night in a row with them holed up in Dean’s cabin and crowding over Bobby's old books when Dean can’t find it in him to concentrate on any of the pages in front of him for longer than five minutes at a time. It’s a combination of too much bad coffee and too little sleep that has him bouncing his legs and basically vibrating on his chair with restless energy. 

It doesn’t helpt that this is his fifth attempt at getting through the tangle of flowery prose of this paragraph. The well-worn book on angel mythology might have valuable information in it, but the way it is written has him wishing he could go back in time solely to punch the author in the face. 

“If I have to read about the ‘glistening radiance’ of an angel’s true form on more time I’m gonna puke,” he groans and Cas gives him an offended look from across the table. 

Dean meets his gaze with a raised eyebrow and makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Oh, stop pouting. It’s not like I was talking about you.” 

Cas, in fact, doesn’t stop pouting, but he does turn his attention back to his own book before saying: “You wouldn’t talk like that if you were actually able to perceive an angel’s true form.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’re true Miss Universe material.” Dean concedes and flips the page. Despite his annoyed tone a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth when he spares Cas a glance and sees that Cas fighting a smile of his own. It makes something warm flutter in his chest. This sort of banter comes naturally between them these days and even though it’s about trivial stuff it makes him feel at ease around the former angel like he hasn’t in years.

“I had a quick look at that book earlier. I believe the angel the author is talking about was Anna.”

Dean freezes.

“Anna?” Dean asks, eyes growing wide before his gaze flicks back down onto the page in front of him, suddenly seeing the text in a whole new light.

“She was the angel you slept with way back when,” Cas supplies without looking up. 

“I remember Anna,” Dean snaps. “And she wasn’t an angel when we—”

“Semantics,” Cas interrupts, his gaze still fixed on the book in his lap, eyes lazily scanning the pages. 

Dean rolls his eyes at Cas’ matter of fact comment and tries to ignore the way his tone and lack of eye contact make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. However, he can’t quite shake the sudden tight feeling in his chest. He didn’t know that Cas was aware of the particular detail of his and Anna’s relationship, although he did see her kiss Dean at some point if he recalls correctly. So, the former angel probably did the math himself. Dean banishes the thought, because there is no reason to feel guilty about it now, or ever. He reminds himself. He shouldn’t feel guilty at all. Why on earth would he feel guilty about that? He grits his teeth and his shoulders slump. So much for finding comfort in their banter. 

The silence between them has grown cold and Cas suddenly feels a lot farther away than the span of the table between them. Dean returns his attention to the matter at hand, aiming for a conversational tone as he speaks. 

“What I meant was: how is Anna in this book?” he says, pushing all his conflicting feelings about the topic aside as he points down at the yellowed page in front of him. 

Cas just shrugs in response before he turns to another page in his own reading material. “Anna was always fond of humanity. She actively sought those out that could perceive her. She talked to them, eased their sorrows if she could.” The former angel looks up from his book, but he doesn’t seem focused on anything in the cabin. There is a distant look in Cas’ eyes, the one he gets when he thinks of events long past. “I remember her being particularly fond of a young woman in Ancient Rome. Lucia she was called. Anna healed her of her imminent blindness when they first met.”

Dean lets his gaze trace along the letters on the page then. Even though their last encounter with Anna wasn’t anywhere near pleasant he can’t help but wonder about her for a moment. He never knew her, not really and he never really thought about it at the time, didn’t let himself inspect that fact too closely, but just like Cas she was an angel once and she loved humanity enough to want to be one of them.

“That was nice of her, helping that girl...” he eventually says.

Cas doesn’t respond to his words right away, which has the hunter look back up at him. He can see the tension in Cas’ shoulders and the sadness in his eyes when he speaks next, only briefly looking up at Dean before dropping his gaze back to the book in his lap. 

“I thought so, too,” he admits and there is so much emotion in those words that Dean finds himself swallowing thickly, feeling like there is a lot more to this story than the former angel lets on. 

“Anna took a vessel for the first time back then,” Cas says, sensing Dean’s curiosity, but only indulging him after a long pause in which neither of them seem able to continue reading. “She visited Lucia whenever she was waiting for orders from our superiors.” He shrugs. “There weren’t many of those at the time.”

“They were close.” Dean observes.

“Very.” Cas agrees. His tone is oddly flat and there are suddenly a lot of implications in that one word. 

Dean raises his brows, before his eyes grow wide. Oh. “Very close, as in biblically close?” Dean asks and watches as the former angel presses his lips together in a tight line, but eventually he does nod in answer. 

“As I said, Anna was ... fond of humanity.” He gives the hunter a pointed look. Dean makes a noncommital sound in return and for a while that is all that is said on the matter. 

Eventually, after another long pause Cas adds: “They were happy, too. For a while...” and something about his tone doesn’t sit right with Dean.

“What happened?” 

“Our superiors found out.” 

The words fall between them like stones. A cold feeling spreads in Dean’s chest. “They dragged her back to Bible camp like they did you, didn’t they?” Dean asks and sees Cas shiver. He is immediately hit by the urge to apologize for bringing up such a loaded memory, but in the end Dean just watches Cas take in a slow breath to steady himself. 

“I don’t know what they did to her when they made her return to Heaven, but afterwards she didn’t remember any of the people she visited. Not even Lucia,” he says and now Dean frowns down at the worn paper beneath his fingers.

“Which was probably for the best,” Cas says after a moment of heavy silence and Dean looks up again only to find Cas’ expression completely closed off. A sinking feeling overcomes him at that. 

“Cas?”

The former angel makes a small sound in return.

“What happened to them?”

“You don’t want to know.”

And judging from the way Cas doesn’t even do as much as let his gaze flicker towards Dean this time, the hunter is certain that yes, he really doesn’t want to know.

Dean breathes out in a low sigh. “So, having an angel perched on your shoulder really isn’t something to pray for then, is it?” He asks with a hollow chuckle. He says it as a joke and means it more as a rhetorical question rather than an actual one. However, he is immediately reminded of that fact that Cas was never good at picking up on stuff like that.

“There is a difference between being guarded by an angel and being loved by one,” Cas says matter of factly and Dean can’t help the way he tenses at the word ‘love’ falling from Cas’ lips as nonchalantly as it does. 

“Which is?”

“One might end in tragedy.” 

Dean’s brows furrow as he studies the side of Cas’ face at the cryptic words. It feels like there is another part to that statement that Cas won’t reveal unprompted. “And the other?” Dean asks and the angel turns his head and fixes Dean with bright blue eyes. The unfamiliar intensity in them catches the hunter off guard. 

“The other always does,” Cas says and then drops his gaze again. “At least in my experience.” It is said with a small shrug of one shoulder, a terrifyingly human gesture, but the easygoing motion doesn’t retract from the heavy weight Dean feels settling over them. 

Then, the former angel closes his book and rises from his chair. For a moment Dean thinks Cas is going to leave, but he just walks past Dean to pick up one of the other lore books from the stack before he settles back in his chair.

They continue to work in silence for a while, or at least Cas appears to be. Dean is just staring at the page in front of him, his thoughts reeling. His mind is dragged back to the conversation he had with Anna all those years ago, both of them leaning against the Impala, the sky above them clear and dark and dotted with stars.

_Perfect... Like a marble statue. Cold... no choice... only obedience._

His eyes flick back to Cas, who is dutifully reading the text in front of him. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, his lips slightly parted as his narrowed eyes skim the pages. It reminds Dean faintly of that day at the barn where they first met, when Cas had picked up one of Bobby’s books, idly flicking through the pages while Dean tried to wrap his head around what was happening at the time. 

“Cas?”

_Why would an angel rescue me from hell?_

_Because God commanded it._

“Yes?”

_Do you ever regret saving me?_

Dean clears his throat as the question lodges almost painfully inside of it. He suddenly realizes that he doesn’t want to know the answer. “I think I’ll call it a day,” he says instead. 

Cas pauses for a moment and nods. “I’ll leave,” he says and reaches up to mark the page he is on by folding down a corner. He closes the book and rises from his chair before tugging the book beneath one arm, clearly intent on taking it with him. Only then do his eyes come up to meet Dean’s.

“Goodnight, Dean.” 

Now, it’s Dean’s turn to nod. His throat is still tight with unsaid words when the former angel makes his way over to the door. Dean fights the overwhelming urge to tell him that he doesn’t have to leave, that he could stay and keep reading if he so chooses, that Dean wouldn’t mind.

“Night, Cas.” Is what comes out of his mouth.


	8. Guilt

People are starting to ask questions. 

Dean knew they would eventually, but he has no answers. He doesn’t have a plan. At this point he doesn’t even have so much as a vague idea of what to do next. 

Sure, Cas and him are trying their best to come up with something, spending evenings with their noses buried in dusty old books, but so far they found no answers to the question of how to kill the devil. They need more time, but as with everything, time is in finite supply. 

They fought off a wave of Croats two days ago and lost two men before the last of them were dealt with. Grief has a tight hold over camp and the feeling of dread lingers wherever one goes. 

They can’t take much more. They might outlast another attack like that, two if they’re lucky. They fortified their defenses after another small group of survivors joined them a few weeks back, but the people are weary and every day it becomes clearer that there is an expiration date on their survival. 

There might be safety in numbers, but there is also higher demand for supplies. Chuck manages resources as tightly as he can, but they’ll run out sooner rather than later. The supply runs to the surrounding cities are already yielding next to nothing. So, they will be forced to move camp within the next week and moving the whole operation is always a risk, especially when they have no idea where to go for shelter.

Some of the people talk about leaving on their own, although Dean doubts they have any more of an idea where to go. These people are also the ones who constantly moan about being given too little food or toiletries, their talk of leaving no doubt rooted in selfishness. They don’t see egotism will get them nowhere except lying face down in a ditch somewhere while a Croat chews on their flesh. 

But alas, like supplies, rationality is not something they have in abundance either. Most of the people at camp are afraid of what is to come, rightfully so, but because they can’t handle their fear they channel it into anger, and this anger seems to be primarily directed at Dean.

Dean can’t really blame them.

In their eyes Dean was too much of a coward to take the one chance they got at killing Lucifer, the one chance they had to make everything right again. Dean knows it never was a real chance in the first place, no matter what he told his people before, but he’s still close to snapping whenever one of the self proclaimed alpha males at camp questions him about his decisions. 

It all comes to a head when one of said men disagrees with Dean’s choice of team leader for a mission. 

They have to come up with a plan for when they’ll inevitably be forced to move. So, Cas is supposed to take a small team out for recon, to find the most secure route for travel. Dean will stay at camp to go over their stock of food and gas with Chuck and supervise maintenance on the remaining vehicles in preparation for the move even if they don’t know where to go yet. If push comes to shove they'll have to just make it up as they go and hope for the best. 

The man that steps forward, Walter, was once part of Yaeger’s posse and ever since Dean shot Yaeger the little band of misfits wound tighter around Walter and started to question Dean’s every move. 

“How come the stoner gets to call all the shots these days?” 

Walter sneers as they load up one of the trucks for the mission. He tilts his chin sharply towards Cas and Dean doesn’t even have to turn his head to know that the former angel is now squinting his eyes at the bulk of a man in return. Walter has about a head in height on Cas and him, but Dean barely keeps from rolling his eyes. He doesn’t answer, only takes the last two bags Cas is offering him and throws them into the truckbed. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Walter says, louder this time, no doubt trying to attract attention from the other people around and sure enough Dean feels several sets of eyes on them a moment later. He shuts the tailgate and gives Walter a steady look, which the man meets it stubbornly. 

“Can it, Walter. Decision’s made. Besides, Cas already led soldiers into battle when you were still busy living the apple pie life.”

He can hear Cas breathe out in a small snort behind him. When Dean turns to give him a look Cas raises an eyebrow at him. The former angel doesn’t say anything, yet his expression clearly communicates how much of an understatement he thinks that is. 

This time, Dean does roll his eyes. It’s not like he can go into the fact Cas is thousands of years old. People had a hard enough time wrapping their heads around a zombie apocalypse led by the devil, something tells him having a de-powered angel in their mids, and one that is notorious for doing drugs and sleeping around on top of that is beyond the understanding of just about everyone except those who know the whole story. At this point in time those are Chuck and Dean, although Dean isn’t entirely sure how much he really knows. 

The silence must have stretched a little to long, because when Dean turns back to Walter the man’s eyes are narrowed at them over their little wordless exchange, and his expression soures further when Dean meets his eyes. 

“Yeah right,” he scoffs. “Is that why he was benched for months? A few weeks ago, chuckles here could barely hold his gun straight.”

Dean doesn’t want to admit it, but Walter has a point. Dean hasn’t trusted Cas with leading missions until recently, but something changed in these last few weeks since Dean abandoned his initial plan for Lucifer. Cas seems willing to get back in the game. He is ready to lead rather than solely follow Dean again and as a consequence has taken a load off him in ways that make Dean feel like he can finally breathe again. They may not have a plan, but Dean still feels like this is better than what they had before.

They don’t have a plan, yet. Dean thinks fiercely.

“I trust Cas,” he tells Walter, without thinking twice about it. It’s been a while since he could admit to that. It’s true, though. So, he just rolls with it. “You should, too.” 

Walter, looks between them again.

“Trust? That’s what this is? Seems more like you’re playing favourites,” he spats.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play stupid. Everybody knows Cassie here keeps leaving your cabin late at night these days.”

Dean sets his jaw but keeps his face carefully blank. He knows he’s beeing baited and he’s not going to bite. Although he can’t help the way his shoulders tense at the implications and the hostile tone in Walter’s voice.

“Your point?” Dean retords, voice hard and eyes cold.

“My point is that you’re making some questionable decisions lately and me and the others are kinda done risking our lives for the resident hippie just because you have a new favourite pet.”

Dean grits his teeth. From the corner of his eyes he can see Cas take a step closer, but the former angel remains quiet even as the entire camp seems to gather closer. Some of them are mumbling in what seems like agreement now, which quickly becomes a steadily rising buzzing noise in Dean’s ears.

Walter’s expression splits into a cruel grin, emboldened by the attention of everyone around them. He turns towards Cas and Dean has to fight the urge to step into his line of sight to shield the former angel from the man. 

“So, what you let him fuck you and you get to boss everyone else around?”

Dean glances at Cas, the former angel’s expression is as impassive as it always is when faced with a situation like this, but his eyes are bright and clear, and he gives no signs of backing down. Cas has dealt with archangel’s threatening him without flinching, Dean knows he won’t give an inch while faced with the likes of Walter. Still, Dean feels his own fury simmer in his gut at the condescension in Walter’s tone. 

Cas’ eyes not being clouded over helps more than it should to calm him. Their gaze is sharp as he stares the other man down. He could speak up if he saw the need, but even rugged and without his grace Cas is above the nonsense Walter keeps spitting at him and Dean finds joy in the fact that the lack of a reaction clearly makes Walter uncomfortable. 

He looks back at Dean.

“Or maybe,” Walter says, like he has it all figured out. “He doesn’t and that’s why you let him do whatever he wants. You’re still trying to get lucky, fearless leader?”

Dean feels his jaw working “Okay, Walt. About time for you to shut up.” Dean says cooly, aware of the fact that showing any sort of reaction beyond that will just give Walter more reason to sprout bullshit. Dean’s shoulders are still set, but he somehow manages to keep his fists from clenching, even though the need to rearrange Walter’s face grows stronger with every passing second. 

“That’s it isn’t it?” Walter laughs, completely ignoring Dean’s words. 

Dean has had enough of this idiot. 

“Damn, must be tough being the only one at camp who hasn’t had a piece of whore ass--” 

There is a sudden crunching sound and the next thing Dean knows is that Walter is stumbling backwards, shouting and bleeding from the nose, while Dean’s hand throbs with pain. A few surprised gasps ring out around them, but Dean barely hears them over the blood rushing in his ears when Walter suddenly comes at him with a roar of anger. 

Dean dodges the swings and uncoordinated punches Walter throws, but loses his footing for a moment on uneven ground as he is forced to step back. The other man hits him in the face with enough force to make Dean dizzy, but he’s been in enough bar fights to be able to push through it and make a quick recovery. He can taste blood in his mouth, but throws another punch anyway. He catches Walter in the jaw and Dean watches with satisfaction as blood flies from the man’s mouth. 

That alone is enough to make Walter completely loose any sort of sense. 

Walter is known for his lack of self control. It doesn’t even surprise Dean when he pulls out a knife. 

From then on it’s pure chaos. A flurry of movements follows where everybody tries to stop the fight before it can escalate further. However, Walter fights them all off, including his so called friends and takes a few wild stabs at Dean. 

Dean tries to sidestep out of the way as best he can, but on the next slash he’s too slow to move and there is a sharp pain in Dean’s left arm. He gasps. His right hand comes up instinctively to clutch at the cut on his biceps and he feels warm liquid seep through torn fabric and onto his fingers. 

More people try to intervene, but they all jump back when Walter waves the knife at them, too. 

In the end, it’s Cas who ends it. The former angel steps into Walter’s way before he can come for Dean again. Cas catches his wrist, only to turn it in an uncomfortably looking way. 

Walter howls in pain as he is forced to drop the knife. Cas goes for Walter’s legs next and within seconds the man is flat on his front, Cas towering over him, twisting his arm behind his back, one knee between his shoulderblades. 

The camp goes quiet. 

Dean stares. The pain in his arm is pushed to the backburner as he takes in the former angel’s face. Cas looks downright terrifying. His expression is dark. His jaw is set and his eyes burn with intensity so bright Dean is almost convinced he can see his grace flare in them for a second.

“I suggest the next time you question my leadership you take it up with me directly.”

For a moment, Walter tries to struggle free, but Cas twists his arm a little further and leans in to hiss something into Walter’s ear, low and threatening. Walter’s movements immediately cease. His eyes grow wide with fear.

“If you ever touch him again I will kill you.” 

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. It’s not an empty threat, either. Cas looks and sounds like he is about ready to rip Walter apart right here in the yard with everone watching.

However, Cas lets him go once Walter stops struggling, but his demeanor doesn’t change even as he steps back. The angelic presence still emanates from him as Walter scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t dare to look at either of them and soon enough he and his friends scramble off to wherever to tend to the man’s wounds.

Speaking of:

“Shit...” Dean mumbles as the sharp pain in his arm finally becomes too much to ignore. He looks down at where blood is currently coloring the sleeve of his jacket and raises his hand to inspect the damage. 

Cas is at his side immediately. 

“Keep pressure on that,” he orders. “Come with me.” 

Dean is still too rattled to even consider disobeying as Cas curls a hand around his wrist and pulls him along. He lets himself be tugged past the entirety of the camp’s population and to Cas’ cabin. 

As they step through the beaded curtain the scent of something heavy and sweet hits his nose. Some sort of frankincense, he thinks, although he has no clue where the former angel possibly could have gotten it. It’s the same scent that clings to Cas hair and skin after one of his orgies, always potent enough that Dean can smell it even sitting at the other end of the table in the briefing room. Dean immediately scrunches up his face at the thought.

Cas doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort as he pulls him over to the bed. Reluctantly, Dean sits on the edge and lets Cas begins to pull off his jacket and overshirt to get a better look at the wound. 

Dean’s thoughts are still too jumbled to not wonder when Cas last disrobed someone right here on the edge of this bed and the thought does nothing too cool Dean’s anger. He clenches his teeth against the pain as he forces Cas hands away and pulls his clothes off with more force than necessary, which leaves him only with the dark grey t-shirt he wore beneath. He throws the clothing down onto the floor with the next wave of anger and hisses as the motion strains the wound. 

“Fuck!” Dean curses in frustration. He licks his lips and is greeted with a sharp pain. He tastes blood, which does nothing to cool his temper. Despite the pain pulsing in his arm he feels like going out and kill something. He has half a mind to get up and look for Walter to finish what they started. 

“Fucking asshole,” he curses again. 

There is a touch on his left shoulder. “Dean, you need to calm down.” If this was anyone else, Dean would probably have exploded in another fit of anger at the order, but when he wips his head to direct his fury at the former angel he is stunned silent by the unyielding fierceness in Cas’ eyes. 

All the fight leaves his body and he sets his jaw again.

“Fine. But this isn’t over.”

Cas doesn’t say anything in return. He just leans closer to inspect the cut. He prods at the wound for a moment before the lines of worry on his forehead ease at least somewhat.

“It’s not too deep, but you will still need stitches.” Cas tells him with a steady voice, even though his eyes are still stormy like before. 

“Wait here,” Cas instructs curtly and Dean nods, even though the other doesn’t wait for his reaction before he is halfway across the room, his movements calculated and precise.

It’s been a long time since Dean last saw this side of Cas. This isn’t Cas the resident addict and love guru. This is Castiel the angel. His powers might be gone, but apparently his angelic fury is still there. 

Cas' anger is always oddly silent and simmering, not outright violent. He never explodes like Dean did when he punched Walter in the face. He doesn't throw or destroy things when pushed too far. He doesn't shout, barely even raises his voice unless someone seriously pisses him off, and even laced with anger his voice tends to go quieter rather than louder. It’s almost as if Castiel deliberately lowers his voice when overcome by anger. 

Maybe he does, Dean thinks absentmindedly as he watches Cas move across the room. Dean knows he’s staring, but he can’t seem to look away as he mulls the thought over.

Maybe it’s a remnant from when he was still an angel, back when his real voice could shatter people’s eardrums and one look at his true form could burn eyes out of skulls. Cas once told him human emotions were overwhelming to angels, but Dean only saw Cas lose his cool once and that was when Dean was about to say 'yes' to Michael. 

Dean finds himself shivering at the memory and drops his eyes to the floor. 

Castiel could have ended him in that alley; at the time Dean was almost convinced that he would. It wasn't until much later, years later, that Dean realized that even overwhelmed with anger the angel had still pulled his punches. 

Back then human emotions had still been new to the angel. Dean can’t imagine how it must have felt for him, but if there is one thing Dean can empathize with it’s feeling overwhelming anger. However, Castiel contained himself anyway, rained himself back in and locked it up before he could really hurt Dean and since then he’s never raised a hand against him again. Dean is almost envious of the fact that Cas managed in less than a year what Dean hasn't been able to achieve in thirty.

Maybe Cas is able to keep himself so collected because he's always been this all powerful creature. Maybe it's just hardwired into him, maybe Cas instinctively keeps everything firmly contained because of the scale on which his fury would strike if he didn't. After all, where Dean would go and wreck a car with a crowbar in his anger, Castiel was once able to wipe entire cities of the map.

Lost in thought Dean didn’t pay much attention to Cas’ actions. So he starts with a hiss when the former angel is suddenly beside him and applying disinfectant from the first aid kit to the cut with a little too much force.

Cas’ eyes widen slightly as they flick up to Dean’s and the expression from before softens into one of sympathy. He seems a little more in the now, the seething anger from before slowly ebbing away. 

“Sorry.” Cas offers, and Dean shakes his head. 

“It’s fine,” he says, words clipped through gritted teeth.

Cas keeps working on the cut on his arm, fingertips now treading lightly on the tender skin, but no matter how gentle he is, as soon as Cas begins to sew the wound shut Dean has to supress grunts of pain. When Cas leans closer while working, Dean catches another faint smell. This time it’s purely Cas, familiar and comforting, like the air before a thunderstorm in spring. It drowns out the smell of the unpleasant mixture of frankincense, disinfectant and blood and Dean is hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia. 

Moments like this used to be quite common back when this whole mess started. When Cas first lost his powers he was still determined to make himself useful and more often than not Dean found himself sitting next to the angel after a rough mission, Cas tending to his wounds in the traditional way, the human way.

Dean finds himself smiling involuntarily as he recalls the easy back and forth between them from way back when, Cas scolding him for being reckless and Dean insisting whatever injury he suffered was barely a scratch. Cas would give him a look somewhere between pleading and irritated and Dean would sigh and let himself be weak for just a moment. 

At first, Dean used to find solace in these moments, feeling oddly calm in Cas’ presence even after a mission gone awry. Only when Cas began to clean his wounds with gentle touches would the adrenaline slowly leave his body and Dean could let himself give in to the exhaustion that seeped into his bones. He would allow himself to wince and groan at the pain he felt when no one but Cas was around and sometimes he would even allow himself to revel in the feeling of ‘safe’ that he associated so strongly with the angel.

However, it didn’t take long for Dean to realize that Cas was hurting every time he did this for him. Dean could see it in the way his jaw set and his brow furrowed. He could hear it in his tone of voice when he spoke. It was clear Cas felt helpless every time he had to this instead of simply laying two fingers to his forehead and easing the pain with his powers. 

It didn’t take long for Dean to remove himself from these situations after the realization hit him. They had drifted even further apart after that. Dean decided to tend to his wounds on his own from then on, meaning to spare Cas yet another painful reminder of what he lost because of his decision to follow Dean...

“It’s been a while, since I last did this,” Cas says, apparently having thought similar thoughts.   
Dean blows an unsteady breath out through his nose as the former angel wraps the cut in a bandage.   
“Yeah...” he agrees, feeling his body loose tension in the same way it did before. Dean realizes this is the closest they have been in months, if not years. It surprises him how easy it is to return to this. How normal it feels to lean into Cas’ touch. 

However, one looming thought prevails: If he had his powers, this wouldn’t be necessary. 

There is another long stretch of silence between them until Dean finds his words again. He turns   
his head to look at Cas. 

“Sorry,” he says.

“For defending my honor?” Cas asks with a chuckle and Dean frowns.

“That’s not--”

Cas looks at him then, open and curious. For a moment Dean’s entire vision is filled with bright blue as the angel tilts his head at him, no trace of the anger left in his expression. Dean is more than relieved to see Cas’ gaze awake and alert, but his scrutiny still makes Dean shift in his seat. He averts his eyes, feeling a little too warm all of the sudden. 

“For putting this on you.” Dean relents. “You shouldn’t have to deal with people like Walter.” He nods in the direction of his arm. “Or this for that matter.”

“Walter had it coming. From what I hear around camp he deserves worse.” Cas tells him. Dean doesn’t know what to do with that information. He isn’t one to listen to gossip, but he imagines Cas hears quite a lot of it when curled up with a bunch of girls in his cabin. Dean shakes the images along with the sour feeling they brought about when Cas speaks again.

“And this is no trouble. I like being useful.”

This time when Dean flinches it’s not about the pain.

“Still, it’s stupid,” he mumbles, guilt making his voice small. 

Cas hums at him, turning his attention back to finishing with the bandage. “Some of my brothers and sisters used to call me stupid, too.” Cas says conversationally but his voice is painted with a mixture grief and nostalgia. It makes Dean swallow around the tight feeling in his throat. 

“What? For choosing me and Sam over them? Yeah, understatement.” Dean aims for a light tone and fails miserably. Instead, his voice falls somewhere between defeated and ashamed. 

Still, Cas chuckles softly, which surprises him. It’s a small and unreasonable thing, but he feels something flutter in his chest at the sound. 

“That, too. But that’s not what I meant.” Cas fastens the bandage and lets his hand drop from Dean’s arm as he leans back.

Dean gives him a look, annoyed with his cryptic choice of words.

Castiel sighs.

“When my garrison was assigned with the task of rescuing you, I stepped forward to be the one to pull you out.” 

Dean stills, eyes growing wider. He didn’t know that.

“I remember Uriel being furious that I would willingly put myself in danger for a human. He thought that I would ‘sully myself by touching your soul’.” 

Dean licks his lips, mouth suddenly feeling painfully dry. He isn’t always consciously aware of what Castiel did for him, but at times it will hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. Castiel, an angel of the Lord, fought his way through hell in order to get to him, to free him, to save him. It’s something huge, monumental even, but the angel only smiles almost timidly when he retells it. 

“Well, maybe Uriel was right.” Dean mumbles, thinking about how he only brought Cas sorrow, doubt and suffering since they met. 

“He wasn’t,” the angel says immediately and Dean has to close his eyes for a moment. 

He tries to conceal the fact that his breath catches in his throat at that statement by letting his head fall forward. His gaze ends up somewhere between his feet on the carpet as he opens them again. He can’t help swallowing thickly at the easy honesty and unwavering certainty he can hear in Cas’ tone. Dean doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even dare to turn his head to take in Cas’ expression.

“Dean...?” Cas says. He sounds worried. 

A hand touches his shoulder again, settling lightly where Cas’ mark is edged into his skin beneath the worn fabric of his shirt. Somehow, it startles Dean how warm his touch is, even though he just had his fingers on his bare skin a few minutes ago. 

“Uriel was wrong.” Cas avers. His voice is low and so full of devotion that Dean can’t help but draw in a sharp breath. 

He pulls himself up from the bed and away from Cas, ignoring the way his skin seems to still resonate with the other’s touch even when the weight of it is gone from his shoulder. Dean hates how much he wants his touch there, how much he wants to just let himself be soothed by Cas’ presence. 

He can’t. 

He doesn’t deserve this.

“Come on. We have work to do.”

He gathers up his bloody clothes and leaves, not daring to look back at Cas as he makes his way to the door, afraid of what he might see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while, but it's also a little longer. Let me know what you think!


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